Little Miss Queen of Darkness
by BeBopALula
Summary: Lover, rival, symbol, dream, beggar, wife. Six people who cared about Lucy Barker in one way or another, but somehow never got to know her. More specific warnings in the author's notes, but you should have a pretty good idea if you know Lucy's story.
1. Talking in Bed

_Author's Note: If you've been in this fandom for a respectable amount of time, you've probably noticed that there's not much love for Lucy Barker. Some people dislike her for attempting suicide when there was still Johanna to consider, others just hate her for being one of many obstacles to Sweeney/Lovett, and yet others simply don't find her very interesting. I've always found the vitriol thrown her way rather unfair. I feel this way partly because she has more awful shit happen to her than any other character; if she did anything wrong, she sure as hell paid for it several times over. Then there's the fact that we don't really see much of her in canon. Most of what we know about her comes from Sweeney's memories, which are colored by love and grief, and Mrs. Lovett's accounts, which are just as influenced by jealousy. Lucy never really gets to speak for herself, except as a crazy beggar woman, and that's why I decided to write this fic. The title comes from the Kinks song of the same name. The name of this chapter comes from the Philip Larkin poem, which you should look up because, seriously, it's fantastic._

_Warnings: Some sensuality and mentions of pregnancy in this chapter. Because this story is about Lucy and I'm sticking to canon, there will be mentions of rape, attempted suicide, prostitution, and other sorts of nastiness in later chapters. I'll warn more specifically at the beginning of each chapter, though._

**Chapter One: Talking in Bed**

"Why do you love me, Ben?" Lucy asks one night, after they've made love. It's the middle of August and they're lying together on top of the blankets. Bundles of rosemary and lavender hang from the eaves, making their bedroom smell better than most of London, although not by much. Benjamin has already been lulled half to sleep by the heat, the aroma of the herbs, and the contented drowsiness that comes after lovemaking; at first, he doesn't really hear Lucy's question. She speaks so softly and quietly, he thinks he's dreaming and says nothing in reply.

"Ben?" she repeats, and something in her voice troubles him. She sounds small and uncertain, like a mouse or an ill-used puppy. These are strange things to associate with his beautiful young wife, whose laughter and singing fill their home, and he's instantly brought back to their little two-room flat on Fleet Street. He opens his eyes to look at her, but the moonlight from their tiny window only lets him see her yellow hair and the line of her profile.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met," he answers honestly. "When I first saw you from across the village green, standing with your parents, I thought you were an angel. I couldn't see anything else but you for the longest time."

He reaches out and traces the curve of her cheek, but finds her face wet with tears.

"What's wrong, Lu?" he asks. He strokes her hair and wonders why lovemaking brings out these fits of melancholy in her. She always appears happy, in her quiet way, right before they go to bed; she even seems to take pleasure in the act itself, although he thinks her enjoyment embarrasses her. She was a rector's daughter, after all, and she was brought up genteelly despite her family's near-poverty. Her embarrassment doesn't account for her tears, though. At least, he doesn't think it does. Another possibility occurs to him. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, no," she says, shaking her head. "You didn't do anything wrong. I think it's just the baby. It does strange things to a woman, being in this condition."

"All right," he says, although he has his doubts. She only discovered she was with child last month. She's only three, perhaps four months along now, and the tears made their first appearance shortly after their marriage, which was a year and a half ago. It's sometimes best to leave these things alone, though. "If you're sure."

She nestles closer to him and kisses his shoulder. He still doesn't know what he ever did to deserve these moments. He wasn't especially good as a child, although he wasn't particularly bad, either; he just got into the mischief that most boys do. He's not rich or distinguished in any way; he's just a man who grew up in a largish village, attended a dame school until he was old enough to take up his father's trade, and went to London to seek his fortune. There must be a thousand men like him, but only he gets to experience the happiness of being with Lucy. When he's in bed with her, he feels as though he'll never be cold or alone, no matter what happens. He wonders if she feels the same. He hopes so.

"Do you know why I love you?" she asks him.

"No idea," he answers. He slides his hand from her hair to her neck to her collarbone, finally letting it rest on her breast. She lets out something halfway between a gasp and a giggle. "Because I'm next in line for an earldom, I suppose. Or is it my vast fortune?"

"Of course not," she says, suddenly serious. He thinks of apologizing and removing his hand from her breast, but then she places her hand over his to keep it there.

"Do you know when I first fell in love with you?" she asks. "I was passing by your father's shop, and I happened to see you in the window, shaving a customer. I could see from the way your face lit up how much you loved your work, and I could tell from watching your hands how good you were at it, too. And I thought to myself, 'I wish I felt that way about sewing, or the playing the piano, or _anything_.' After that, I'd see you in the village and I'd notice how gentle you were. You never pushed anybody aside or spoke a harsh word. And I thought, 'That is the man I want to marry. I want to have children with him and live with him for the rest of my life.'" She pauses and laughs a little. "I suppose it doesn't hurt that you're so handsome, either."

For a moment, he cannot say anything. He's suddenly so full of happiness that he could bury his face in her hair and weep. Nobody has ever said anything so wonderful to him. Nobody has ever said anything so _kind_. He thinks of the baby that's coming and he thinks of his own mother, who died when he was four. He wonders what it would've been like to have a mother like Lucy, so beautiful and full of love. Then he takes her in his arms and kisses her lips, her chin, her neck, everywhere.

"I love you, Lucy," he says, over and over again. "I love you so much."


	2. Her Majesty

_Author's Note: This is the second installment of "Little Miss Queen of Darkness," in which Lucy pays a visit to Mrs. Lovett after having Johanna. It gets pretty nasty._

_Disclaimer: I do not own _Sweeney Todd_. Or an ice cube tray, which is a far more serious matter. I also didn't own either of those things last chapter, although I forgot to say so._

_Warnings: Mentions of abortion and sex. There is also some crude language, violent thoughts, and the depiction of a somewhat sickly woman who's just had a baby. She also drinks ale while nursing, which I think might be frowned upon today, but we're talking about the "Hey, Let's Just Get All the Orphans Drunk, That's an Effective Way to Run the Workhouse" Era, so I'm pretty sure it was cool back then. _

**Chapter Two: Her Majesty**

In times of stress, Nellie Lovett finds it useful to take a big lump of dough and knead the _hell_ out of it. Of course, it's nearly always useful for a baker to knead large amounts of dough vigorously, but today she actually wants to perform the task. Today Lady Lucy has deigned to visit the pie shop for the first time since the baby arrived last week. If that doesn't qualify as a time of stress, Nellie doesn't know what does. She pushes her fist into the dough with perhaps more force than necessary, pretending it's Her Ladyship's exquisite visage. The image is easier to conjure up than usual, because Lady Lucy's face is somewhat swollen and her complexion has gone from porcelain to a sickly grayish-white. Nellie may envy her for many things—her leisure, her baby, and, most of all, her husband—but she's glad to have escaped that particular effect of having children.

"Jo is the sweetest of babies," Lady Lucy says, sipping from the water-downed glass of ale Nellie gave her, "but I am so tired, I hardly know where I am. Do they _ever_ sleep?"

"I wouldn't know about that, Mrs. Barker," Nellie replies, a bit stiffly. She glances from the dough to Lucy, who has milk stains all down the front of her dress and is obviously not wearing a corset. Her waist is as big as a cow's, and Nellie takes some pleasure in the observation. "I never had any of my own, you see."

"Oh! I'm sorry," Lucy says, blushing. She sounds sincere enough. She doesn't ask whether Nellie can still have children—they're the same age, twenty-three, and there's a good bit of time left for that—but the question is written on her face. Nellie refuses to satisfy her curiosity. It's none of Her Ladyship's affair and, besides, she's not sure of the answer. She found herself in trouble once, before she met Albert, but she brought it off with pennyroyal tea as soon as she realized her courses had stopped. The pennyroyal might have made it so she couldn't conceive, but she thinks it more likely that Albert is sterile; after all, she's never known him to father a child. Or perhaps they just didn't try often enough before he got too sick to fulfill his marital obligations. There's no use wondering why, though. Guessing at the reason doesn't change the way things turn out.

"I only asked because we're new to London," Lucy continues, bringing her out of her thoughts, "and I don't have many friends here. Really, you're the only one."

"Well, isn't that a pity," Nellie says. She hardly bothers to conceal the bile in her voice. If Her Majesty is stupid enough to consider her a friend, she won't notice a little hostility. "Shouldn't you be upstairs with the sweetest of babies?"

In a second, Lady Lucy's expression changes completely. Her smile, which she has maintained throughout the conversation despite her pallor and the shadows under her eyes, drops right off her face. She presses her lips into a thin white line and glares at Nellie through her drooping eyelids.

"Benjamin is looking after her," she says crisply, "but I think I'll follow your suggestion, Mrs. Lovett. I think the company will be better upstairs."

With that, she takes one more sip of ale, sets down the glass, and rises gingerly. Nellie just stares at her. She's had far worse things said to her than what she just heard, but this is the first time that Lucy has spoken to her with anything less than politeness. For a few seconds, she's too shocked to speak, but she recovers in good time."

"Thank you for your kind condescension in visiting, my lady," she says, giving a mock curtsey. "Better get back to the manor before all the milk leaks out of your noble bubbies."

Lucy flushes dark red and, for a moment, Nellie thinks she's won. Then Her Majesty laughs. It's the laughter of a very tired woman who's equally close to tears, but it's laughter all the same. Nellie resists the urge to throw the dough at her.

"Sometimes, I think I could like you very much," Lucy says. "Perhaps you could like me, too, if you realized that I didn't marry Benjamin or have Johanna to spite you. Have a good evening, Mrs. Lovett."

Then she hobbles out of the shop, leaving Nellie to punish the dough. Times of stress, indeed.


	3. An Exemplar to Her Sex

_Author's Note: This is the third installment of "Little Miss Queen of Darkness," in which Judge Turpin is disappointed after the masked ball. I have decided that his first name is "Joseph" in this fic, because I wanted to be all symbolic and do a Biblical reference or whatever. The title of this chapter is taken from _Clarissa_ by Samuel Richardson. I've read only one tenth of it—it's like 1400 pages or something—but it's pretty amazing so far. This chapter is pretty heavily influenced by _Clarissa_ in other ways, as well as _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_. _

_Disclaimers: I don't own _Sweeney Todd_, _Clarissa_, or _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_. Plus I only have one clever T-shirt. Mine is a grim existence. _

_Warnings: Well, this takes place after the masked ball, so there are many mentions of rape. Also, there is misogyny and victim-blaming from Judge Turpin, suicidal intention from Lucy, and discussion of prostitution. This will probably be the darkest of all the chapters. _

**Chapter Three: An Exemplar to Her Sex**

At heart, all women are whores. Lust, greed, and treachery lurk within the souls of the most virtuous of the sex. Nobody knows this better than Joseph Turpin. He's seen a parade of prostitutes, procuresses, murderesses, adulteresses, women abortionists, and female thieves pass through his courtroom. He's bedded enough women to know that the line separating innocent virgin or faithful wife from shameless wanton is, at best, ill-defined. He's read countless authors who share his opinions. These days, newspapers and novels are full of nonsense about the purity and gentleness of women, but St. Jerome, Andreas Capellanus, Boccaccio, Chaucer, and the Marquis de Sade knew better. Given the right incentive, even an exceedingly chaste and honest woman will turn to vice. When Joseph first saw Lucy Barker in the market, with her white dress and neatly arranged yellow hair and happy little family, he resolved to use her as an example to prove this principle.

Now he's standing over the disheveled, despoiled body sprawled out on his divan like a dead thing. Her skirts have been pushed halfway up her milky thighs and her pantalets are tangled around her dainty ankles. There are scratches on her lily white hands, bruises on her wrists, and a tear in one of her sleeves. Her yellow hair is spread out on the cushion, but she doesn't look like the wanton demimondaine of his imagination. Instead, she reminds him of a drowned woman with a cloud of seaweed-like hair. Her eyes, bloodshot and swollen, stare at him accusingly. For the first time, he doubts the wisdom of his scheme.

"I've hired a carriage to take you back to Fleet Street," he says to her. It wasn't his original intention to pay for her conveyance home, but he can't think of another polite way to get rid of her. She's been allowed to leave since he dismounted her hours and hours ago; he almost resents her for just lying there, not even bothering to fix her skirts. Besides, she'll be more disposed to become his mistress later if he's kind to her now. "It's waiting outside now," he adds. "I suggest that you put yourself to rights before you leave."

"I'll walk home," she says. She speaks quietly and calmly, as though they're discussing what to have for supper. He expected this sort of objection from her—women often petulantly refuse favors when they feel they've been wronged—but her tone unnerves him.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snaps. "It's too far, and you're in no state…"

He can't finish the sentence, because it reminds him that he's the one who put her in this unable-to-walk-home state. He wonders what, exactly, he has proved by taking her. She belongs to him now—she's been his ever since she agreed to come to his house—but she hasn't transformed into the licentious harlot he expected. She just seems defeated, broken. Perhaps that will change with time, but he has the sick feeling that he's looking at something permanent. He never expected victory to be so miserable.

"I'll walk home," she repeats, but she makes no attempt to rise or make herself decent. She only turns her gaze from his face to her arm, which hangs limply off the divan.

"You'll take the carriage," he tells her. He gets no response. Finally, he reaches to pull up her pantalets himself, but she flinches at his touch and whimpers a little, so he decides to slide them off her legs instead. He pulls them over her balmorals, wondering why he didn't even bother to remove her boots, and folds them neatly before setting them on a nearby end table. Then he fixes her skirts so they cover her ankles and helps her off the divan to her feet.

"Thank you," she says mechanically. She removes her shawl from the divan and drapes it over her shoulders, hiding the damage done to her hands, wrists, and dress. She starts to run a hand over her unkempt hair to smooth it, but seems to realize there's no help for it and lets her arm drop. Then she walks by him and picks up her pantalets. She cast her eyes about for a place to put them, looking for all the world like a blind woman, and finally tucks them under her arm. She starts walking towards the ballroom doorway and he follows her.

"I can show myself out," she says, once they're in the foyer. "Good day, Your Honor."

Before she can take two steps, he grabs her elbow. She shrieks and he has to clamp a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Not that the servants or the few lingering guests would lift a finger to help her if they heard. Hell, Bamford would probably rush to assist _him_. Still, he wants her to hear him.

"Wait," he tells her. "I want to accompany you home. There are a few matters we need to discuss."

She shows no signs of screaming, so he removes his hand.

"You don't need to make things so difficult for yourself," he continues, once it's clear she's going to stay quiet. "We'll make an arrangement. I'll put you in a townhouse, somewhere far more fashionable than Fleet Street. You can have fine dresses, jewels, anything you want, if only you'll be my mistress."

She stares at him blankly for a few seconds before speaking.

"You have killed me," she says, in a hard, low voice. "Even if I didn't love Benjamin, even if I was the sort of woman to be unfaithful to my husband, even if I had ever liked you at all, I would never be your mistress. I can never associate with your _friends_. You've humiliated me before them too thoroughly for that. My neighbors will denounce me as a whore as soon as they hear of this, and my family will never receive me or my daughter again. You have ruined me in everybody's eyes, and that is nothing—"

"You are being unreasonable," he says, but he doesn't try to silence her. He can't seem to move at all. "There is no question of you walking home. Please, just—"

"Listen to me! Listen to me!" she screams, eyes streaming, and he closes his mouth. "You have ruined me in the eyes of the world, and that is nothing compared to what you have done to my head. I can hardly think two thoughts at a time without remembering what you did, what you all did. I want to _die_. Only Johanna…and what sort of life can she have now, what sort of mother can I be to her, when I am despised by everybody and can't think, can't think, oh, _can't_…"

Her stammered words turn into sobs. Unsure what else to do, he offers her a handkerchief from his jacket, but she slaps his hand away and wipes her eyes on her shawl. At last, her sobs subside and turn into mere whimpers. For a long time, he just stands there, watching her sniffle, and he finds himself despising her.

"If you didn't want it, why did you come to my house?" he asks coldly.

She lifts up her head and glares at him. Despite her red eyes and running nose, she puts him in mind of a queen.

"I thought you wanted to help Benjamin," she says. "I didn't know what you were then. I didn't know what you meant until it was too late."

"All women say that," he replies, but his stomach is sinking. He wonders if his rashness last night has cost him what he desired all along. After all, he's fairly sure he didn't just want to fuck a virtuous woman; he wanted her love and admiration, too. Now he's lost his chance at everything with Lucy Barker.

"Perhaps some women mean it," she says, almost mildly. "Perhaps even most do. How many women have you heard that from, Your Honor?"

There is no answer to that.

"Very well," he says, after a long moment. "You may walk home, if you please."

"Why, thank you, Your Honor," she replies. "You always treat my wishes with the utmost regard, don't you?"

There is no answer to that, either. He watches her walk out the front door, where all the neighbors will be able to see her, and goes upstairs to bed. The next time he sees her, she's begging and peddling her body in front of his house. Her face is dirty, her hair is wild, and she keeps singing _wouldn't you like a little muff, dear, a little jig-jig, a little bounce around the bush_, but it's not as satisfying as he thought it would be. He's starting to wonder if anything ever is.

_Author's Note: I mentioned St. Jerome, Andreas Capellanus, Boccaccio, Chaucer, and the Marquis de Sade as writers Turpin admires for their "insights" on women. I don't mean to malign all of them as misogynists, though. Boccaccio and Chaucer just wrote stories about sexually voracious women, which was a big stereotype until the Victorian Era, but I wouldn't say they hated women especially. _


	4. Your Long Time Curse

_Author's Note: The fourth installment, in which Johanna embarks on a painful adolescence and Judge Turpin does not help matters. Lucy is more of an "off-screen" character in this chapter, but she's still very important. The title is from "Just Like a Woman" by Bob Dylan._

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Sweeney Todd_ this time, either. _

_Warnings: Emotional abuse and a traumatic first period, mostly. Also, some pretty severe self-hatred from Johanna and mentions of prostitution. Finally, Turpin is…well, Turpin. He's not lusting after her at this point, but he's still bringing all his terrifying ideas about sex and women into his interactions with her, so it's still going to be disturbing. _

**Chapter Four: Your Long-Time Curse**

When she's thirteen, Johanna wakes up with blood on her sheets and thinks she's dying. It's a nasty shock, one she feels to the soles of her feet, but after a few minutes, she more or less accepts her fate. She's sad that she'll never be a full-grown lady who puts up her hair and goes to balls, but she suspects Father will never let her do those things, anyway, even when she's twenty years old. Lately, she feels like nothing will ever happen to her. She'll spend the rest of her life in this house, working at her sampler and looking after her birds. Perhaps it's just as well that the rest of her life won't be that long.

She'll miss Father, of course. She loves him dearly, more than anyone she knows. Not that she knows many people. The servants are well-trained and barely speak to her, her governess thinks her disagreeable and willfully stupid, and she hasn't had a nurse in years. Beadle Bamford despises her almost as much as he adores Father. Her natural parents died when she was a baby, so she never knew them enough to love them. Father's the only person alive who really cares about her, so she tries hard to please him. Most of the time, though, she only disappoints him by sulking or being impertinent to her governess. He never hits her like the cruel guardians in novels, but he doesn't have to. His disapproval is heavier than a hand could ever be, and his chastisements sting more than any switch. It's a wicked thought, but the idea of escaping his judgment fills her with relief. Besides, he'll probably be angry at her less often when he finds out she's dying.

Then it occurs to her that he can never find out that she's dying. If he knows that she's dying, he'll know that she's bleeding from between her legs. Her stomach already hurts—she thinks that's where the wound is, actually—but the possibility of him find out makes it churn even more. Suddenly, she's struck by the unfairness of her situation. It's not enough for her to die young and painfully; she also has to be afflicted with a _humiliating_ disease as well. She knows she's not a good girl, but she's sure there are people worse than her. If God chose to punish her this way, she doesn't even want to think about what he does to men who murder their wives and women who sell themselves on the street.

_It's not for you to question the Lord, Johanna, _she reminds herself, although it sounds like Father's voice in her head. Anyway, she's not supposed to know about that kind of woman. She only found out because of the madwoman who loiters in the street below her window. Most of the time, she only begs for money, but sometimes she yells rude things at men and points to the front of their trousers. If the trousers are tight enough, Johanna is able to make out a bulge. The madwoman has many names for this thing—cock, prick, dick, yard, willy, pole, sausage, pipe, and, most oddly, pudding—and she tells the men they can put it inside her for a few pennies. It sounds extremely unpleasant for both parties, in Johanna's opinion.

She glances down at the bloodstained sheet and sighs. Criticizing God and mulling over obscene matters isn't just sinful; it's downright useless. She needs to hide this mess so she can end her earthly existence in the least shameful way possible. It's about half an hour before her maid brings up the tea tray, so she has a little time.

She climbs out of bed and goes to the windowsill, where she keeps her sewing basket. There she finds her scissors, which she takes back to the bed. Carefully, she cuts around the offending bloodstain until she has a square of cloth roughly the size of her palm. Then she takes the square to the fireplace and throws it into the flames, which devour it with satisfying quickness. She allows herself a smile. The chambermaid won't notice the missing fabric when she makes the bed, since the mattress is the same color as the sheet, and the laundress will have it mended without saying a word to anyone.

Next, she slips out of her nightgown and examines the damage done. The blood is all near the hem, thanks to her childish habit of squirming in her sleep. She cuts a wide strip off the bottom, slashes it to tiny pieces, and throws those scraps into the fire, too. Now all evidence of her terrible ailment is gone, save the blood on her legs. After returning the scissors to their basket, she washes that away as well. Then she goes to her closet, puts on her linen and stockings, and, after a moment of thought, folds an old handkerchief into a rectangular pad and shoves it down her pantalets. When her maid arrives with the tea, it's as though nothing ever happened.

* * *

><p>What's done in the dark will be brought to the light. Johanna knows this perfectly well, so she's not surprised when Father summons her to his study late that afternoon. She supposes he wants to scold her for her inattentiveness at lessons. Her imminent death has cast a strange lethargy over her, making it difficult to concentrate on French or the history of England.<p>

She makes her way to his study and knocks on the heavy oak door. Now, more than ever, she feels like there's something awful in her, like she's rotting from the inside out.

"You may come in," she hears Father say, so she does. He's sitting behind his massive desk with a heavy book open in front of him. He raises his head at the sound of the door opening and smiles, but his eyes are sad. Her stomach drops. She knows she's disappointed him yet again.

"Good afternoon, Father," she says. Her voice comes out as a squeak and she hates herself for it. "Did you want to speak to me?"

"I did," he replies, still smiling. "Close the door behind you."

"Yes, sir," she says. She shuts the door and comes to stand on the carpet in front of his desk. For a long moment, he just stares at her until she feels about three inches tall. It's almost a relief when he speaks.

"I understand that you mutilated your nightgown, Johanna," he says drily. "Half a foot is missing from the hemline, which is now very ragged. Can you explain yourself?"

"Sir, I…" she starts, but then she realizes that she _can't_ explain herself, not unless she wants to reveal the truth. "I don't know why I did it," she finally says. Her voice breaks on the last word. "I'm sorry, Father."

He shakes his head and looks very sorry for her.

"I provide decent clothing for you. Wouldn't you say that's true, Johanna?"

"Yes, sir," she says, biting her lip. In truth, she has more dresses than she knows what to do with, as well as shoes and bonnets and various other pretty things.

"I don't just equip you with the correct daytime attire, though. I also make sure that you have proper nightgowns. Do you agree with me?"

"Yes, sir," she repeats. Tears threaten to leak from her eyes. Even though she knows she didn't mean to be ungrateful, she wants to beg him for forgiveness.

"Then why, tell me, would you shorten the hemline of your nightgown by six inches?" Now he's talking in his dangerous voice, low and precise. "Did you _wish_ to display your legs like a common harlot?"

"I don't know why I did it," she repeats. Then she burst into tears. She doesn't even know what a harlot is, but the word makes her think of the madwoman and her embarrassing invitations to men. "I'm so sorry, Father."

For a while, he says nothing, just gazes at her sternly. Then his expression softens.

"I forgive you, Johanna," he says. "You didn't know what you were doing, did you?"

"Yes, sir," she says truthfully. In fact, she still doesn't understand what he says she did, but she decides it would be best not to mention it. Instead, she takes a handkerchief from her pocket and dries her eyes. Father smiles at her indulgently.

"You look so much like your mother," he says. "She was very beautiful, but she wouldn't do what was right. Much like you, she was stubborn and given to sulking. You must learn obedience and self-discipline if you wish to avoid turning out like her."

"Yes, sir," she says again. She doesn't know how her mother ended her life, only that she died. As far as she knows, Father's warning has come too late, because she's already being punished for taking after her mother with this dreadful disease. "I'll try to do better."

* * *

><p>"Looks like you've started your courses, Miss Barker," her maid says that evening, as she helps Johanna out of her corset. "I'll get you some rags once I'm done with this. Would you like some tea as well, or perhaps a warming brick?"<p>

"What?" says Johanna. She immediately realizes how uncouth she sounds, but she can't help it. This is the most her maid has ever spoken to her and she doesn't understand half of what's being said. "What are you talking about, Violet?"

"Your courses," Violet says matter-of-factly. "You've got blood all over the back of your pantalets and I suppose you're just about old enough. It's nothing to worry about, Miss. It's just the curse, that's all."

"What?" Johanna repeats. She feels like the world has started spinning the other way round. "You mean I'm not going to…I'm not ill?"

_You're not going to die, _she thinks, as Violet lets out a laugh that isn't exactly unkind. _Oh, Johanna, did you _want_ to die? _Suddenly, she feels like she's been walking down a dark, narrow path, surrounded on both sides by wolves, without even being aware of it. She knows that she doesn't want to die now. It's just that she feels like she's already dying, suffocating like a walled-up nun in her father's house, and she has no idea how to escape.

"Of course not," Violet says. She's stopped laughing by now. "It happens to all women. It's messy and uncomfortable, but it won't kill you. Besides, it only lasts a few days a month. Don't let it trouble you, Miss."

"Thank you, Violet," she replies. She can feel the heat rushing to her face. She's never been more embarrassed—no, humiliated—in her life. She was such a fool, thinking she was dying from something that happens to all women, and now Violet knows about it. "I won't let it bother me."

* * *

><p>Once she's in bed, though, with a warm brick at her side and a properly folded rag between her legs, all she can do is rage and grieve over the curse, but not the one God put on all women. That's a heavy burden, but it's nothing she can't live with. What she can't bear is the curse she inherited from her mother, who made no will but left her a king's ransom of sins and failures. Her mother, who left her alone.<p>

Outside her window, she can hear the madwoman, but she isn't asking for money or shouting rude things. She's singing in a scratchy, wavering voice that Johanna finds oddly sweet despite her own wild, helpless fury.

"Sleep, baby, sleep," she warbles, and Johanna recognizes it as a lullaby. "Your father tends the sheep. Your mother shakes the dream-land tree. Down falls a little dream for thee…"


	5. Walking after Midnight

****_Author's Note: The fifth installment, in which Anthony tries to save Lucy and has trouble dealing with Freudian as well as Jungian issues. This turned out way more violent and upsetting than I expected. The title comes from the Patsy Cline song of the same name. "I walk for miles/Along the highway/Well, that's just my way/Of saying, 'I love you,'" reminds me of Lucy and, to a lesser extent, Anthony._

_Disclaimer: Don't own _Sweeney Todd_ or "Fennario." _

_Warnings: So. Many. Warnings. I thought I'd gotten past the worst stuff, but...no. We've got sexual harassment, attempted rape, prostitution, general violence, mental illness, borderline suicidal thoughts, tasteless jokes about incest, _very_ improper gun use, mentions of a child dying (although the child in question is Johanna, so she's actually very much alive), and mild language. Oh, and drunkenness, I suppose. _

**Chapter Five: Walking after Midnight**

To tell the truth, Anthony's not exactly sure why he's loitering outside a gaming hell at one o'clock in the morning. He doubts that the judge would punish Johanna by making her deal cards in a den of iniquity—there must be no end of vile youth in there—and he's hardly a gambling man. His mother raised him to regard games of chance as a sin, right between hard liquor and fornication in the hierarchy of Thou Shalt Not. Besides, he's not much good at it. He only has middling luck and everything shows on his face.

It's Beadle Bamford's fault, really. Anthony's been trailing him for weeks now, hoping it'll lead him to Johanna, but all he's seen so far are the worst taverns, hells, and whorehouses in London. Of course, he knows better than to throw the first stone—he's neither a teetotaler nor a virgin, after all—but the beadle seems to do nothing _but_ wallow in vice. He's convinced that, were somebody to make and distribute an illustrated pamphlet of the beadle's nightly activities, the whole kingdom would turn to virtue out of sheer disgust.

This hell isn't the worst place he's seen, but the group of gentlemen currently stumbling out of the doors make him wary. There are six of them, all wearing top hats, wide cravats, and tight trousers with checks or stripes. Their jackets are unbuttoned, displaying waistcoats of scarlet, gold, vermillion, rose, bottle green, or sky blue. In the half-light, their tall boots shine like mirrors. They're obviously drunk, falling all over each other as they walk, and there's an edge to their loud, raucous laughter. Anthony guesses they're just ordinary gentlemen on a spree, but he thinks they might do something nasty tonight. He dodges behind one of the garish painted columns in front of the establishment and waits for them to pass.

They're talking about a woman who will take four men at once. Anthony's not so naïve that he hasn't heard of a woman taking two at once. He can even imagine three, although it doesn't sound very comfortable. But four…well, he thinks that people would run out of places to put things at some point. He's half trying to figure out the logistics and half trying to put the whole thing from his mind when he hears a familiar voice.

"How would you like a little muff, sirs?" the beggar woman shrieks. He winces. They run into each other sometimes, far more often than two strangers in such a big city should, and she always strikes him as the most pitiful person he's ever seen. God loves all His creatures, but He has a funny way of showing it to this poor woman. "A little jig-jig?" she pleads. Her ravaged voice falters. "A little bounce around the bush?"

Anthony peeks from behind the column. She's standing before the drunk gentlemen, lifting her skirts to expose her scabby, unwashed calves. She's not even wearing stockings, just an old pair of men's boots. Her bonnet, as usual, droops over her eyes. A great wave of pity and revulsion washes over him, turning his stomach.

_Why doesn't somebody help her? _he wonders_. Why _didn't_ somebody help her, before it came to this?_

"Oh, I doubt it'd be a _little_ muff, mum," quips the gentleman in the gold waistcoat. "Not with how long you've been plying your trade."

His companions howl with laughter. She just stands there with her tattered skirts suspended above her knees, looking as though she doesn't understand at all. Maybe she can't, but Anthony understands plenty. The old wave is replaced by one of pure rage. He clenches his fists—when the sun rises, there will still be crescent-moon marks on his palms—and he sees everything through a red haze. Because they're gentlemen and she's an insane, wretched prostitute, they think they can say anything to her, _do_ anything to her, and that doesn't shock Anthony at all. Really, it doesn't. He's not what the judge says he is, but neither is he blind to the ways of the world. It's the pointlessness of their cruelty that gets to him. They clearly don't want to sleep with her and there can't be much fun in mocking somebody so wretched, so why won't they just leave her alone?

"Tell you what," the gold gentleman says. His voice drips with false sweetness. "I'll give you a farthing if you come behind the building with us. How does that sound?"

"Thruppence," she insists. The gentlemen just snicker.

"London may be expensive, sweeting," says the gold gentleman, who must be their spokesman, "but I doubt prices have gone up that much. It's a farthing or nothing."

"Tuppence," she says, but they're not interested in bargaining. The gentleman in the sky blue waistcoat grabs her arm and, with a sick certainty, Anthony sees that she won't even get a farthing out of this. Worse, they'll hurt her, all six of them. They'll leave her torn and bleeding behind this building. Maybe they'll end up killing her.

Before he quite knows what he's doing, he's picked up a discarded liquor bottle and smashed the end against the column. He jumps from behind the column, brandishing the bottle.

"Leave her alone!" he shouts. The gentlemen turn and stare at him. A couple of them seem a little uneasy, but the rest of them, the gold gentleman included, look unimpressed and a little amused. It occurs to Anthony that there are six of them and just one of him. He also realizes that they might be armed. Perhaps a few of them even have guns.

_And you've never really used a weapon on anyone, _he tells himself. _Waved a broken bottle at Barton that one time, but the worst you've actually _done_ is vomit on Harris's boots. You, Anthony George Hope, are the stupidest person who has ever lived._

Still, he forces himself to continue. He does not lower his voice or soften his tone. Maybe these men will murder him for that, but he'll definitely want to kill himself if he backs down now.

"She doesn't know what she's doing," he says. "Let _go_ of her."

"Oh?" asks the gold gentleman, raising one thin eyebrow. "And how does this concern you?"

"Can't you see, Edwards?" asks the man in the scarlet waistcoat, grinning at Anthony. "We've insulted his mama."

They all burst into gales of laughter. Anthony's annoyed—drunk people who find themselves inordinately amusing are the _worst_—but not really offended. All he can think is that the beggar woman must be about his mother's age. His mother, who decorates her home in Plymouth with sad paper doilies, who knits him more scarves than he'll ever be able to wear, who has no idea what goes on at sea because he can't bear to tell her half of it. What happened to this poor woman to make her so different? How many people had to hurt and fail her before she ended up like this?

The sky blue man's laughing so hard, tears are streaming from his eyes. This allows the beggar woman to break away from him. Her vacant, strangely sweet eyes light on Anthony.

"Sailor boy," she says. Her cracked lips curve into a smile and she stumbles towards him. He resists an impulse to back away. The thought of her dry, dirt-caked hand on his arm gives him an odd, prickly feeling, like he doesn't want to be in his own skin anymore. It's not fair, he knows. She deserves his pity, not his disgust, and it's not as though misfortune is catching. Besides, he can't help her if he runs from her. So, he makes himself stand still when she grabs his jacket sleeve. "I remember you, sir," she says. "Got another penny for me?"

That gets the gentlemen's attention.

"Oh, so that's how it is," the gold gentleman—Edwards—says. "Well, it's a commendable thing for a young man to love his mama…although it's going a bit far for him to _love_ his mama. And, really, my boy, she shouldn't charge you so much. You're family, after all."

More laughter. Anthony knows that Edwards is being deliberately outrageous. Nobody here actually thinks this woman is his mother, or that he has an…incestuous thing with her. Still, he feels _wrong_ just listening to these people. He wants to be in his rented room, alone and tucked away from all of this.

"Well, alright," he says. It doesn't really mean anything, but he has to start with something. He raises the bottle a little higher and puts his free arm around the beggar woman's shoulders. "That's fine, but we're leaving."

"Like hell you are," Edwards snaps. The laughter is gone from his eyes. He strolls right up to Anthony and the beggar woman. "I believe we engaged the lady before you did, Mister…what's your name?"

He asks pleasantly enough, but one hand pulls back his jacket to reveal a pistol hanging off his belt. He takes hold of the weapon and, still smiling, uses the barrel to stroke the beggar woman's thigh. Anthony doesn't want this man to know his name, but he can hardly refuse and he doesn't have the presence of mind to come up with a false one.

"Anthony Hope," he replies. Edwards grins even more broadly, but that's expected. Men like that love Anthony's surname.

"Penny first," murmurs the beggar woman. She doesn't seem to notice the gun at all. Thank God for small favors.

"What a strange economy London has," Edwards remarks. His eyes shine with mirth. He moves the gun from the beggar woman's thigh to Anthony's. He can feel the cold metal through the material of his trousers as Edwards runs it up and down his leg, from his crotch to his knee and back again. "This diseased old whore costs thruppence, yet Hope costs nothing."

The other gentlemen—the other bastards—titter at the pun. Is it a pun? Anthony doesn't know. He wonders if they can see the gun from where they're standing. It bothers him that he doesn't know exactly what they're laughing at. He also prays he can keep from pissing himself. He has room for no other thoughts because, good Lord, it has never been this bad. He is going to die here, in front of this gaming hell. What will his mother think? What will happen to Johanna?

"What do you want?" he asks. His voice comes out dull and quiet. Thank God for that, too. "I don't care. Just don't shoot her, or me."

Before Edwards can reply, the beggar woman lets out a high, earsplitting screech. It sounds the way lightning looks, like it could bisect the sky. Then she breaks into a run, still clutching Anthony's arm. He has to run, too, to keep them both from falling to the ground. He barely has time to glance back at the gentlemen. Edwards is gaping at them, but the rest are laughing again.

_They are laughing at Edwards, _he tells himself, because he has to believe that if he wants to live with himself. And maybe that's not fair, either, but it's the way he feels.

* * *

><p>They end up in Fleet Street, outside of Mrs. Lovett's pie shop. Anthony doesn't remember making a conscious decision to come here. It's near his room in Bell Yard, but it's closed for the night. There's no chance he could buy a meat pie or even visit the occupants at this hour. Not that he's inclined to see them, anyway. Mr. Todd was always reserved, but now he acts more like a pale ghost than a human being. As for Mrs. Lovett, Anthony's never trusted her, although he can't quite explain why. He feels bad about it—she takes such good care of Mr. Todd and Toby—so he tries to ignore it. Still, he'd never go to her with anything important. Anyway, she seems to have an irrational hatred of the beggar woman. Maybe the beggar woman led him here. She always seems to be hanging about the shop, after all.<p>

By the time they get there, they're no longer running, but she's still clinging to his arm. He doesn't mind her touch anymore; it saved him and, besides, it beats the hell out of a gun barrel. Together, they collapse onto one of the picnic benches.

"I could've died," he says, once he has his breath back. The words sound stark and cold in the night air. He wishes he hadn't said them, but he keeps talking. "I could want to be dead right now. You saved me."

The beggar woman shakes her head. He thinks she's being lucid, as well as charmingly modest, but then she starts singing, almost under her breath, and he realizes that her mind is somewhere else entirely.

"What will your mama think, what will your mama think, what will your mama think, pretty Peggy-O?" she chants, swinging her legs like a little girl. "What will your mama think, when she hears the guineas clink, and my soldiers all marching before you, oh?"

Then she falls silent. After a while, he turns to her.

"Promise me you won't go near men like them again," he says. She blinks at him like he's speaking Chinese. In the ruins of her face, he sees that she must have been pretty. "They could have hurt you very badly. They could have killed you."

"Could've hurt sailor boy," she mutters. "What will your mama think? Mama worries about you, you know."

"I know," he says heavily. He doesn't know where she is in time or space, whether she's talking about his mother or her mother or herself or Pretty Peggy-O's mother down in Fennario, but it doesn't matter. He's still thinking of the letters his mother sends, full of worry and Bible verses and love. He loves her, too, but it's easier not to live with her.

"I lost my baby," the beggar woman says. Her tone, simple and matter-of-fact, somehow makes the words even sadder than they are inherently. "I worry about her. I don't know where she is."

"I'm so sorry," he tells her. _She's with the Lord now, _his mother would say, but he senses that the words would be inappropriate, even obscene at this moment. Instead, he says, "You'll see her again someday."

And he means every word. He can't believe in a God who wouldn't reunite this woman with her child, no matter what she's been or done.

"Will you look for her?" she asks. He wonders how he can even answer that until she says, "Please, keep looking for Johanna. I know you love her, too."

"Of course," he says fervently, because that's something he can do, something he wants to do. "I'll keep looking for Johanna. Don't worry."

_Author's Note: Sorry, Anthony. Also, a gaming hell sounds worse than it is; it's just a casino, basically. _


	6. My Life and My Bride

_Author's Note: The sixth and final installment, in which Sweeney Todd has another epiphany before dying. So, it starts with Benjamin Barker and ends with Sweeney Todd, like bookends or something. Pretty fancy, huh? Anyway, the title's from Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee," but you probably knew that. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Sweeney Todd_. Or a can opener that works properly, which is getting to be a problem. _

_Warnings: Murder, blood, grief, and references to suicide. If you saw the end of the movie, though, you know what to expect. _

**Chapter Six: My Darling, My Darling, My Life and My Bride**

Back when he was Benjamin Barker, he knew a few magic tricks. They were nothing fancy, but he could amuse his neighbors and Lucy's little cousins by picking the right card or making a coin disappear. Of course, Sweeney Todd has no interest in such frivolities. He sees the sins of his neighbors—the butcher's greed, the grocer's cruelty, the used-clothes dealer's licentiousness—and he has no interest in entertaining them. As for children, he finds their company unbearable. With his old eyes and fondness for gin, Toby is a far cry from the baby girl he remembers, but the boy is still a painful reminder of what he lost. Sometimes, he wonders how Mrs. Lovett can coo endearments to the boy and tousle his hair, all the while involving him in their foul if righteous schemes. It disgusts him, but he can hardly expect her to know the difference between a child and a lapdog.

He wants to amuse neither her—no doubt she'll take it as a sign of love—nor Anthony, although he's still enough of a child to enjoy that sort of thing. Never mind that they're the closest he has to friends, save the ones that all fit in a velvet-lined box; he has a calling that leaves no room for diversions. If he wanted to play his tricks again, though, he could do it as though he'd never stopped. All it takes is skillful hands and a good memory. He's always been blessed abundantly with both qualities.

In a way, he supposes, he still works a dark magic on his customers. _Pay no attention to me,_ he silently told the audience at the marketplace. _Yes, I challenged Pirelli, but I am nobody from nowhere. Watch him. Look at his cape and his charts, listen to his bragging. _Then, when they looked back to him, he'd already finished shaving his man. He didn't just prove himself faster than Pirelli; he made it look like he could give a shave in the blink of an eye, just by speaking quietly and keeping his head down after the initial challenge.

Now that Mrs. Lovett's started selling the new meat pies, he uses her for misdirection. _Look at my lovely assistant, Mrs. Lovett, with her fancy new dress and her white breasts pushed up to high heaven. Listen to her endless, cheerful chatter. Taste her meat pies. Aren't they good, ladies and gentlemen? _Nobody notices when the occasional man goes up the stairs and never comes back down. Now you see him; now you don't.

Sweeney Todd is quick and clever. He can manipulate anyone with a quirk of his mouth, a deferential tone, a look that lingers a second too long, a seldom-raised voice, or whatever the occasion calls for. Maybe he's too clever for his own good, though, because the greatest trick he ever plays is on himself. He doesn't even realize what he's done until he's sitting on the bake house floor, holding his dead wife in his arms while his own blood drips into the cut on her throat, the cut that _he_ made.

Now you see her; now you don't.

Truth be told, he barely thought of Lucy after learning that she'd poisoned herself. He couldn't bear to remember her, not directly. He realizes that, now that the light is fading fast and Toby's footsteps are a distant memory. It's almost funny. The boy that Mrs. Lovett wanted to play the son in her readymade family really does take after him, killing to avenge the woman he loves and even using the same weapon to do it.

_Look at Turpin, _he told himself. _Remember what he took from you. Imagine the fear in his face when you confront him; picture the blood spraying from his throat. Don't think of Lucy, except in terms of your vengeance. Don't think of your sweet, shy wife, who is lost and gone forever. Look at her portrait to fuel your rage, but don't wonder what she was thinking in those last moments before she drank the poison. Don't ask yourself how she could have done it; don't ask yourself how bleak the future must have looked to her, how the poison must have seemed like the only option. Easier to think about blood and vengeance; you can do something about that, at least._

But now she's here, in his arms, dead yet undeniably real, and he can no longer banish her to a corner of his mind. Nor does he want to.

"I forgive you, Lucy," he says, or tries to. His voice barely comes out as a rasp. "I forgive you, and I'm so sorry."

_Author's Note: And that's the end. I really enjoyed writing this, what with all the different character perspectives, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Remember to be kind to unpopular characters and have a pleasant evening. _


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